


Volo te Realis

by nickelsandcoats



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M, Magical Realism, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-24
Updated: 2012-07-01
Packaged: 2017-11-08 11:59:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/442973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickelsandcoats/pseuds/nickelsandcoats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wishes and wishes and wishes for a <i>real</i> friend, and in a world where wishes can become reality, will Sherlock be deemed worthy enough to have his wish come true?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://thanksforthetea.livejournal.com/profile)[**thanksforthetea**](http://thanksforthetea.livejournal.com/)'s/sherlockmadetea's prompt [here](http://nickelsandcoats.livejournal.com/122267.html) at my shuffle meme post. She asked for #221, which was "Harry's Sacrifice" from the Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part II soundtrack by Alexandre Desplat.

It was said that if you wished very, very, very hard for something, and the Fates decided your wish was something vital to your well-being, your wish would be granted. Most people wished for love, or money, or a house, or food, or for their sickness to be gone so they could spend more time with those they loved.

No one understood why some wishes were granted and others were not. It was said that only one wish could ever be granted in a person’s lifetime. Others said that the wisher had to be in good graces with the Fates, so many wishers left gifts at the temples and churches. Some said that the wisher had to be pure of heart and mind, and so many wishers never got their wishes granted. Those who were fortunate enough to have their wishes granted received a mark, a small tattoo, as a sign of their worthiness.

Children rarely got their wishes granted⎯nearly all of the wishers who did receive their tattoos were adults.

It didn’t stop the children from wishing, and even the one boy who no one believed would ever wish for anything (he was strange, anti-social, withdrawn, too intelligent, eyes too piercing) wished for something.

That boy, that strange, lonely (something he would never admit to but in the deepest of his heart of hearts) boy, Sherlock Holmes, wished for a friend.

Of course, he didn’t quite understand that he was wishing for something, but still, he spent every moment since he conceptualised the idea of friendship wishing for someone as understanding as Badger, Ratty, and Mole to appear in his life (Sherlock’s mother read him _The Wind in the Willows_ from a very young age, and the book made quite an impression on Sherlock, who fancied himself most like Badger). So, every night, before he closed his eyes, he wished for a Mole or Ratty of his very own, and then went to sleep, Bear tucked up close to his chin.

And then, something extraordinary happened. Well, it was extraordinary to young Sherlock, who could _see_ the friend he’d been wishing for for several months now. No one else could see his friend, and his friend didn’t talk. In fact, for the first year, the friend was a rather ghostly figure, more a wisp of smoke than a ghost, who appeared and disappeared at random times. He (or at least Sherlock was nearly certain it was a he) tended to coalesce when Sherlock needed company the most (when Mycroft went off to school after that one long summer when Sherlock was but five and didn’t understand why Mycroft had to be gone for so long) or when Sherlock was at his lowest and highest points. As he got older, Sherlock started keeping track of when his friend would appear, for how long he would stay, appearance, and other little details only Sherlock would notice. He kept this data hidden away in little notebooks Mycroft bought him, and those notebooks were preserved and updated well into his adulthood.

 

 

When Sherlock was seven, he finally named his friend.

Sherlock was racing about the Holmes estate wearing a pirate hat fashioned from yesterday’s newspaper and brandishing a cardboard tube the gardener had helped him paint silver. He wore an eyepatch that Mummy had made for him from an old eyemask, and he was running away.

Well, not away away, but to his secret place down deep in an old, disused part of the garden (the gardener, knowing of young Master Holmes’ penchant for hiding there, deliberately left it unkempt, with Mrs. Holmes’ permission) so that he could be alone and away from the heavy, oppressive feeling the house stirred in him sometimes.

His friend appeared almost as soon as Sherlock pushed aside the low branches that partially concealed his secret place.

“Hello,” Sherlock said, looking carefully at his friend, who was more solid and real than he had been before. His eyes were a slate blue, and his hair was a dark blond. He watched Sherlock with interest, eyes tracking his every move, even as he himself remained rooted in one spot. Sherlock circled the small clearing, cataloguing out loud the differences he found since he’d been there just last week. Once he returned to his starting point, he looked his friend up and down, fingers itching for his notebook so he could write down the nuances of his friend’s changing appearance. Now, his friend was wearing a striped jumper that was slightly too big for him and a pair of denims that nearly covered the tops of his bare feet. Sherlock tilted his head and said, “Do you know why I came down here?”

His friend watched him, silently.

“I came down here because Father’s sick, and he won’t get better. And Mummy called Mycroft to come home from school, so it..it…has to be bad. I’ve been reading about cancer. And the pancreas. The books say survival isn’t likely. And then Mrs. Moberley tried to give me _sympathy_ today at school, and it was awful. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to know what I know.” He swallowed back the tears that were threatening to choke him, and then swiped angrily at his eyes.

His friend’s face softened, and he shifted his weight, licking his lips as if to speak. Sherlock watched him, waiting to see if his friend for the past two years, the one who he spoke to even though his friend never answered him (deep down, that made Sherlock more sad than anything), would speak for the first time. But his friend just shook his head sadly. Sherlock reached out to meet his friend’s outstretched hand, but his solid hand passed right through his friend’s, as if it were made of smoke and air. His friend vanished as suddenly as he appeared, a look of shocked surprise flickering across his face.

Sherlock sat down on a stump and waited to see if his friend would come back. Sometimes he did come back shortly after disappearing, but Sherlock hadn’t tried to _touch_ his friend before. He didn’t know what would happen now. Would he disappear forever? Sherlock didn’t think he could handle having two people he cared about leave him forever, and his eyes welled up again at the thought. He dropped his cardboard sword and buried his face in his hands, letting himself cry until he was spent.

When he looked up again, his friend was hovering right in front of him, a worried frown across his face. Sherlock blinked away the last few tears still clinging to his lashes and said, rather stupidly, “You came back.”

His friend smiled and nodded, as if to say, _Of course I did, silly._

“Will you always come back?”

At that, his friend’s features twisted a bit as he shrugged. He looked upset, and Sherlock quickly decided he didn’t want to see his friend look upset ever again. Seeing that expression made something deep in Sherlock’s chest twist a bit, and he didn’t like that feeling.

So, he hopped off the stump, rubbed his nose on his sleeve, and then declared, “You’ll be my first mate, won’t you?”

His friend looked over shoulder to see if there was anyone else Sherlock could be talking to. Realising they were still alone, his friend looked back at him and pointed one finger at himself, one eyebrow raised inquisitively.

“Of course, you. See, I’m a pirate captain⎯” he pointed to his hat, “⎯and all captains need a first mate.”

His friend nodded, grinning a bit as Sherlock picked up enthusiasm.

“Come on! Let’s go search for buried treasure!” He started to run out of the clearing, but he stopped and looked back over his shoulder at his friend, who was just behind him. Sherlock turned around to face him and looked him up and down before declaring, “You need a name. All first mates need one, and you’ve been my friend for almost two years now and I haven’t given you a name yet. All things need names and naming, that’s what Mummy says⎯names are important and can give you power over them. I don’t want to have power over you, so I’ll just give you a first name. You can pick your middle and last names.” He stopped, pursing his lips for a moment before he nodded and said, “John.” He felt a little shiver run through him as he made his pronouncement. “Is that okay? Do you like it?”

John’s grin, if it had been real, could have lit the clearing. Sherlock grinned back and yelled, “Come on, then, John! We have treasure to find!”

 

 

They played together nearly every day for seven weeks, until John suddenly disappeared again and didn’t come back. The day after he left, Mummy, her voice high and tight and so, so fragile, called Sherlock and Mycroft to their father’s bedside. He squeezed their hands as tightly as he could, but no matter how much Sherlock and Mycroft pleaded with him, Father didn’t open his eyes.

The funeral was four days later. Sherlock sat in the front pew of the church, listening to the priest speak. Mummy was sat next to him, Mycroft on his other side. Mummy was gripping his hand so tightly that Sherlock could feel his bones squeezing together. Sherlock spent the service wishing desperately for John to arrive so that the two of them could lean their heads close and Sherlock could pour his sorrow and his anger and all of his confusion (why did it have to be Father?) into John’s ear. But John was not there, and he was not there when they left the church, he was not there when they left the cemetery, he was not there at the lunch everyone only picked at when they gathered back at the estate.

John was not there when Sherlock went to bed that night, but when he woke in the early hours of the night, his pillow was wet and John was suddenly _there_ , watching him with sad eyes. Sherlock gulped down air and made himself lie back down, facing John, who scooted down the bed to lie facing Sherlock. If John was flesh and blood ( _I wish he was really real. I wish I wish I wish⎯I gave him a name I want him to be real_ ), their hands, foreheads, knees, and feet would be touching. But instead, Sherlock had to keep just a bare millimetre between them so that John would not inadvertently disappear. They stared at each other for a long time, John’s eyes saying everything he physically could not, until Sherlock finally fell asleep.

When he woke, John was nowhere to be found.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Three years later, Sherlock finally asked Mycroft about the tattoos those who had their wishes granted received. 

“No one knows why we get them when we do, Sherlock,” Mycroft explained, “but they only appear after a wish has been granted.”

“Like Mummy’s.”

“Precisely.” Mycroft resettled in his chair, crossing his legs at the ankle. Sherlock burrowed a little deeper into the sofa, settling in for a story. “Mummy said her tattoo appeared after you were born. It can be surmised, then, that her wish was for you.” Mycroft smiled at him. “And, I suppose, for me as well, even though you’re a brat.” He grinned even as Sherlock stuck out his tongue. 

“Do you have a tattoo?”

Mycroft looked at him for a moment and answered, “No. And that’s not a question you ask people, Sherlock.”

“Why not?”

“Because some people don’t like to be reminded of lost wishes. And it’s rude.”

Sherlock mulled this over. “Why can’t we have more than one wish ever granted?”

“No one knows.”

“I’ll find out,” Sherlock said. “I’ll find out and I’ll tell everyone. It’s not fair that we only get one wish. If Mummy used hers for me, then she could have had another for Father if everyone got a second wish.”

Mycroft sat up straighter and nearly snarled, “Don’t ever say such a thing to Mummy. Swear it.”

Sherlock cowered back a bit. “I promise,” he squeaked.

Mycroft blinked and seemed to come back to himself. “I apologise⎯I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I wasn’t scared,” Sherlock sniffed. “Not at all. John doesn’t think you’re scary either.”

“Sherlock⎯”

“NO! Don’t say it! I wished for him and he’s real even if you and Mummy can’t see him!”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft repeated, gently, “You don’t have a tattoo. No one but you can see him. He’s just an imaginary friend, that’s all. When you get older, you’ll see.”

“He _is_ real!” Sherlock jumped off the sofa and ran for the door, neatly sidestepping his brother who had risen in alarm at Sherlock’s abrupt departure. 

When he was in the doorway, a safe distance from his brother, Sherlock turned back and shouted, “I hate you! You never believe me, and I never want to talk to you again! I thought you would understand, but you’re just like everyone else. Leave me and John alone!” He turned and ran down the hall, sniffling back hurt and angry tears. If Mycroft didn’t believe him, then no one ever would. He slammed the door to his room and sat back against it, hugging his knees to his chest. John was nowhere to be seen, and in the furthest corner of his mind, Sherlock began to doubt.

 

When Sherlock was sixteen, he cadged his first cigarette off one of the lads in exchange for keeping quiet about the fact that he’d seen the other boy snogging a boy outside the toilets last week. When he exhaled for the first time, John was watching him with a faint frown of disapproval.

 

When Sherlock was eighteen, Mummy took him aside, and, as was tradition, gave him a lecture and a warning on the power of wishes. 

“You’re old enough now, dear, for wishes to come true. I won’t tell you to be careful what you wish for, but I will tell you to be yourself. Think about it⎯apply your methods and your logic before you ever breathe a word of a wish. Will you promise me that?”

“I promise, Mummy.”

That night, Sherlock laid in bed and stared at the ceiling, waiting for John, who still wore jumpers that were slightly too large for him, and was still irritatingly, achingly incorporeal and even more maddeningly, still mute. As a child, Sherlock had honed his deductive skills with John, sending him out and about for a while and then telling him what he had done just by reading his body language. Now, John appeared, already lying down next to him, his body held carefully just far enough away to keep them from accidentally touching and sending John off to…wherever it was he went when he was not with Sherlock. As one, they turned on their sides to face each other, and John grinned at him, mouthing “Happy birthday,” and manipulating his mouth carefully so that Sherlock could read his lips.

The lip reading was new⎯only a few months old. Sherlock had done something unspeakable to a sheep’s eyeball, and John, who had been watching what he was doing with a sick fascination, started yelling at Sherlock when the eyeball squirted out its contents directly through John’s ghostly body. They had both stared in surprise as John realised what he had just done. Even though no sound had come out, Sherlock responded to his abuse as if he had heard him.

 _I didn’t know I could do that,_ John mouthed. 

“Neither did I. Lucky for us I can lip read. Well, enough to catch most of your meaning.” Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “This is perfect, John! Think of the experiments we can do!”

John just rolled his eyes, but the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

As university dragged on and on⎯“Honestly, John, they should just give me the degree so I can leave. This is _pointless!_ ”⎯Sherlock’s brain grew restless. He had managed, quite inadvertently, to alienate absolutely everyone in his college and the faculty, with his deductions. At first, Sherlock had been surprised⎯his schoolmates as a young boy had mostly learned to ignore him⎯and then, angry. After several months, he gave up the anger and went straight to resentment. If these idiots didn’t want to socialise with him, then he wouldn’t deign to acknowledge them. He drew his ability to deduce, to shatter privacy and share secrets and tattoos (that one got him punched more than once), around him like a shield, matching their taunts and derision with his own pointed barbs. Slowly, people stopped throwing insults and he was left completely alone. Everyone avoided eye contact and gave him a wide berth when they passed him in the halls or on the streets. 

John was his only constant, but even he couldn’t be there all the time. At night, when he could be bothered to sleep, he closed his eyes and wished for John to become real so that he would have a friend and everyone would see that there was someone in the world who cared for him. (Sherlock would never admit it to anyone, but he was desperately, achingly lonely, and his heart was cold and empty in his chest).

Every morning when he woke, he held his breath for a just a moment before he opened his eyes, hoping to see the dark swirl of a tattoo on his body so that he would know his wish had been granted.

Every morning, he woke to see John, still as ghostly as ever, watching him with apologies in his eyes.

 

When he was twenty-five, Sherlock Holmes nearly went mad from boredom. His mind was clawing itself to pieces, he’d been evicted from two flats already and was about to make it three, and worst of all, his wish still hadn’t come true. He saw people walking about London with their tattoos and every time he deduced what stupid, petty thing they’d been deemed worthy to have and he, friendless and lonely and _hurting_ , had a greater wish that wasn’t being granted, his heart twisted and howled.

John watched him now, warily, trying and failing to talk to Sherlock. Their half-silent conversations (John still could only mouth what he wanted to say, and Sherlock’s lip reading skills had grown exponentially) were growing ever more loaded as John tried to implore Sherlock to eat and sleep, and Sherlock steadfastly ignored him. 

Another six months went by, and their arguments were getting worse. Sherlock would simply close his eyes and turn his head away when John started making a fuss over him, and eventually, John stopped appearing as much.

The day Sherlock first tried cocaine, John appeared in front of him, wild-eyed, hands reaching out as if to check him over, ensuring that Sherlock was still alive, that the gasping, thundering beat of his heart wasn’t too fast. 

“John!” Sherlock cried, “John, you came back!”

 _I never left,_ John said, _You just never noticed I was here._

That took Sherlock a moment, and when he finally parsed the meaning of that, his shoulders slumped and he curled in on himself. “You don’t understand, John. This is amazing! I can finally hear something other than my mind screaming at me. Everything is finally…quiet, John. It’s never been quiet.”

John just looked at him sadly. _You realise this will likely kill you, right?_

Sherlock’s face contorted with rage. “I would have died anyway! At least this way I can get some fucking peace! Besides, no one would miss me anyway. Mummy’s gone, now, and Mycroft’s too busy to care.”

_I would miss you._

“You’re not even real! The only thing I’ve ever wished for was for you to be real, and I can’t even have that! I’ve just given up. I’m not good enough to have my wish granted, so why bother?” He rolled over, pulling his dressing gown tightly around his body.

John gaped like a landed fish for a long while before he faded away.

Sherlock flipped back over, looking around wildly for John. “John? John! Where are you? Come back, John, I didn’t mean that. I’ll keep wishing! John?”

There was no answering shimmer to the air, no indication that John heard him. Sherlock closed his eyes, refusing to wipe away the stray tears that escaped.

 

The next time he saw John, Sherlock had just been thrown in jail by a certain Detective Inspector (newly minted, married two years, baby on the way) who found Sherlock’s knowledge of the crime scene he had been processing a little too in-depth for someone who claimed to be innocent. Well, that, and Sherlock was only just coming off his high. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “So the only time you’re gonna come around is when I’m in trouble?”

 _No._ John crossed his arms and sat on the bed opposite.

“Then why now?”

_I’ve told you before, I never leave, you just can’t always see me._

“Yeah, and I’ve not seen you for months. So why now?”

John huffed. _Because you’re wasting your potential, Sherlock. That Inspector is, as we speak, talking to Mycroft on the phone. When he comes in here, he’s going to release you and offer to let you work on crime scenes⎯_ Sherlock sat up straight at that, eyes gleaming (he had not felt so _alive_ in months as he had when he was instructing the Yard on the identity of the murderer they sought) _⎯But he’s going to tell you you have to get clean and stay clean or he can’t work with you._ John paused and looked Sherlock straight in the eye. _I think you should take him up on his offer._

“Why do you care so much? What are you, my conscience? My guardian angel? Something Mycroft devised to keep an eye on me?”

John smiled at the last. _No, I’m your friend. And friends care about each other._

Sherlock felt a ball of guilt settle heavily in his gut. He cared about John, in his own way, and it hurt him to realize, all at once, that John was truly constant, that he stayed because he cared for Sherlock of all people, that he rarely judged Sherlock for his choices. And Sherlock had let himself get haphazard in his wishing. John gave him another, smaller smile and faded away just as the Inspector’s footsteps became audible. 

 

John started following him to crime scenes, hanging back just out of sight, watching in fascination as his friend solved case after case. He just wished he could get Sherlock to quit using in between cases, in the “quiet times” where boredom got to be too much and the experiments and the violin did nothing to keep him occupied. Cocaine, Sherlock claimed, was the only thing that could silence his mind long enough to help him get a foothold over his brain. John knew that eventually, something had to give, and it did in the form of an overdose. 

When Sherlock went unresponsive, eyes rolled back in his head, John sprung forward, reaching out, begging to be allowed to help his friend. His hand became solid, and John blinked in surprise. He hesitated for just an instant before he reached for Sherlock’s mobile and sent two texts, fingers fumbling a bit as he figured out how to work the buttons. The first was to Inspector Lestrade, the second to Mycroft. As soon as he pressed send, his hand lost its solidity and the phone clattered next to Sherlock’s limp hand. John crouched next to his friend until he heard Lestrade’s boots thundering up the stairs and then stood aside, letting the man check his friend over.

John heard something over his shoulder and half turned, eyes widening when he saw who it was. 

The Fate smiled at him and held out a hand. _**Come, He-Who-Is-Named-John. It is time.**_

_Time for what?_

The Fate took his hand and said, simply, _**For you both to get what you’ve wanted for so many years**_.

John swallowed and stepped forward.

 

When he woke in the hospital, John was not there. Sherlock bit back a wave of bitter disappointment and closed his eyes again, wishing that he could see John again.

Seven months later, still John-less but finally detoxed and feeling more stable than he had in years, Sherlock Holmes walked into Bart’s seeking a flatmate. He told Mike Stamford, who knew him well enough to find a flatmate who could tolerate Sherlock’s eccentricities, to please (Mike had blinked at his use of the word) ask around to see if there was any interest.

Later that afternoon, Mike walked back into the lab with a short, sandy-haired man in tow. Sherlock’s eyes flickered over the man, gathering data even as Mike stepped out of the room, citing an appointment with a student. The strange man blinked at him, and something started to niggle at the back of Sherlock’s mind. He looked…familiar, somehow. The stranger stepped closer, and Sherlock could more closely see the tan lines at the wrists and neck.

“I’m sorry,” the stranger said, “But Mike never gave me your name.” 

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said, holding out his hand for a shake.

The other man smiled, but didn’t take it. Sherlock lowered his hand, watching the stranger through narrowed eyes. “Who are you?” he asked abruptly.

“Don’t you know?”

“No.”

The stranger held out his left hand, and pulled up his sleeve. On his wrist, just above where his radial pulse could be felt, was a tattoo of a key. A key that looked a great deal like the one to 221b Baker Street⎯a key that was currently in Sherlock’s pocket. Sherlock’s mouth dropped open just a fraction, and his breath stuttered to a stop in his chest. “Look at your arm,” the stranger⎯ _John, it has to be John, who else would have that key, who else would look like him_ ⎯said gently.

Sherlock unbuttoned his cuff with shaking fingers and pulled up his left sleeve to see a newly-created tattoo, an exact match for the one on the stranger’s⎯John’s⎯wrist.

“John?” Sherlock breathed.

“Hello,” John said grinning from ear to ear. “I’m sorry I left you alone for so long, but it had to be done.”

“How? Why?”

“That will take a very long time to explain, and I’m parched. Being made incarnate and planting memories in Mike’s head so he would think he knew me and bring me here takes a lot out of a bloke.”

“But you’re real?”

John reached out, clasped Sherlock’s hand in his, and drew it to his chest, where he placed it over his heart and let Sherlock feel the thunder of its beat against his palm. “As real as you,” John said simply. 

“I want to know everything.” Sherlock said, staring at his hand on John’s chest.

“I’ll tell you everything. But can we do it at home?”

“Home? You want to, you want to live with me?”

“Where else would I go?” John huffed a sigh and smiled at Sherlock’s look of incredulity. “Do you want me to live with you?”

“Yes! You’re mine, and I’m not giving you up.” Sherlock’s hand clutched at John’s chest, as if he could capture John’s very being. The very idea of having John not with him when he was flesh and blood and so, so brilliantly alive was abhorrent. “Not unless you want to leave me.”

“Never,” John said. “I’ve wished for this just as long as you have. Why else do you think I have a tattoo, too?”

“You have?”

John’s smile was heartbreaking. “I would always wish I could be with you so you could have a real friend. I never gave up on you, Sherlock Holmes, and I never will. So you’re stuck with me, I’m afraid, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Sherlock swallowed heavily. “Neither would I,” he said, hoarsely.

John plucked his hand from his chest and wove his fingers through Sherlock’s marveling at the feel of skin-on-skin. “Let’s go home,” he said tugging gently to guide Sherlock out the door.

 

When they got to the door of 221b, Sherlock handed John his keys and allowed him the honour of opening the door to their flat for the first time. As he listened to John thump up the stairs, Sherlock glanced down at his tattoo and whispered a silent thanks to the Fates before he shut the door and walked up to greet his new life.


End file.
